


The Adventure Of The Five Orange Pips (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [70]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Forgiveness, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Seasickness, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 07:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10871523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: As the old Victorian song said, 'to have a happy, live-long life, keep ye no secrets from the wife'. One gentleman, regrettably for him, ignores that sage advice – and as so often happens, truth (or in this case, Sherlock) finds him out.





	The Adventure Of The Five Orange Pips (1887)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistressdomia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistressdomia/gifts).



Sherlock was, despite his part-Irish ancestry, quintessentially English in so many ways. Indeed, he preferred if possible to stay in or at least close to London at all times, presumably fearful that in his absence the criminal fraternity would immediately start running amok! Ironically it was this case, which took us to two places that were English and yet not in England, which presaged our first and only visit to the Continent, and a whole plethora of cases which showed that my friend's abilities, like a good wine, travelled exceptionally well. 

This case mainly took place initially in the county of Monmouthshire, technically English and yet also Welsh, whose motto _Usque Fidelis_ ('Faithful to Both') I had wanted to be the title to this story. However, the killjoys at the “Strand” magazine insisted that this would be over the heads of many of my readers, and much as I disagreed with that assessment, I was forced to comply. Yet the story did indeed feature someone who was, despite the contortions it caused, faithful to two different causes. And to two different ladies, although bigamy was not involved. 

Not in this case, at least.

+~+~+

This case began in rather unusual circumstances, and can be dated from the very day after we (Sherlock) solved the Grosvenor Square removal van case. It had topped off a hectic couple of weeks in which there had been a run of such small to medium cases, which I had noted with some alarm was visibly tiring the great man, on top of certain familial difficulties which, of course, I cannot divulge but which bore down heavily on him. Fortunately my friend Peter Greenwood came to my aid, telling me that he had recently acquired a rental on a cottage in the Monmouthshire village of Skenfrith, just across the border with Herefordshire, and asking me if I would like to take my friend there for a couple of weeks, as his wife was pregnant (with their sixth child!) and they could not go until later this year. I half-expected Sherlock to refuse, but to my surprise he said that he would enjoy a break. The 'from my family' was unspoken, but there nonetheless. 

It was not only my friend who needed a rest; we were short-staffed at the surgery, and the 'removal' case had been the only one that I had been able to accompany Sherlock on. I had also suffered a back injury, which had not helped matters, and today I had had a set of clients who seemed to live in the four corners of the City, so I had arrived home exhausted, my back aching. Sherlock was out, and I found a note stating that he was having another unwilling dinner at the family home but would be back immediately after. I therefore had to dine alone, and was about turn in when he slouched through the doorway, looking even more bedraggled than usual. I was about to ask him how things had gone, but he spoke first.

“Your back is giving you trouble?” he asked visibly concerned.

It said something of the man that, beset as he was by his own troubles, he still found time to concern himself about others. I smiled at him.

“Where Mrs. Bannister thumped me with her walking-stick for having the temerity to give her those tablets that she did not like the taste of”, I said, remembering with a shudder the crotchety old woman in Bagshot Mews. She had actually complained to the surgery about me, but thankfully Mrs. Fotheringay, who ran day-to-day matters there with frankly terrifying efficiency, had told her that she would be charged extra for attacking one of the surgery's staff, would not be attended again until she apologized, and was lucky that the police were not being called in. The old hag had taken her business elsewhere, and I had somehow gotten over the 'terrible loss'.

“That was nearly two weeks ago”, he frowned. “You are still hurting?”

“Peter recommended that I go to Bath or Harrogate for a week or two, to take the waters”, I admitted. “Though I am looking forward to seeing the Welsh March, as I have never been in that part of the world before. It is fortunate that the practice can spare me; Doctor Bullivant gets back tomorrow from Baden-Baden, where his niece is getting married. That is one place that I would have loved to go to.”

“Well, we will see what healing properties the March possesses”, my friend said. “Goodnight, Watson.”

“Goodnight”, I yawned, and all but fell through my door to reach my bed.

+~+~+

On the appointed day, we went to Paddington to catch a Great Western Railway train to Hereford, from whence we took a Cardiff-bound train as far as the village of Pontrilas. There we had to take a carriage for several miles along the Monnow Valley, but the autumn weather was sunny without the oppressive heat of the capital, and we soon reached our destination. Sherlock was already looking a little better, and I congratulated myself on getting him away from the stresses and strains of his profession.

Our first week in the valley passed uneventfully. The village was home to an important Marcher castle and a beautiful thirteenth-century church, both of which I enjoyed exploring. We hired horses and rode into the nearby town of Monmouth one day, which we found pleasant enough. On another day we journeyed through the beautiful Golden Valley to the charming town of Hay-on-Wye, and also visited the ruins of the nearby Clifford Castle, a place with a connection to the family whose descendants built Glendower Mansion, later 221-221B Baker Street. I was glad to be away from the stifling summer heat of the capital, and Sherlock seemed to be enjoying himself, even if his hair was worse than ever in the winds blowing along the March.

On the first day of our second week we went out for a long morning walk, and returned to a pleasant luncheon at the local inn, the Bell. I had planned to spend the afternoon visiting the church again, but when we called back at the cottage for a quick cup of coffee (I had been wise enough to pack plenty of Sherlock's favoured brand for the duration, if only for my own safety!), we found someone waiting for us. She was a young lady of about twenty-five years of age, plainly dressed but well-presented.

“They tell me that you are the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, she said in a melodious tone. “Is that true?”

I resisted an urge to groan. Honestly, were we not safe even in an out-of-the-way place like this? Sherlock smiled at our visitor.

“Indeed I am”, he said, “and this is Doctor Watson. How may we be of service?”

(All right, the 'we' made me feel a bit better.)

“I think that my husband may be seeing another woman.”

We both stared at her in surprise. I recovered first.

“I shall get the coffee”, I said.

He smiled at me.

+~+~+

“My name is Mrs. Hannah Jones”, the lady said, having taken a seat. “I have been troubled by my dear Ivor's behaviour for some considerable time, and your arrival here seems providential.”

Not for my chances of getting my poor tired friend to take a rest, I thought, a little sourly.

“Pray tell us how this all began”, Sherlock asked.

“I should begin by telling you that our union was difficult at the start”, she explained. “I was born Hannah Mortimer, the only daughter to the richest family in the village, whilst Ivor's father came to the area from the Rhonddas, when they built the railway through to Abergavenny. He chose to remain, and Ivor also worked as a 'navvy', helping build the line up the Golden Valley. He is some eleven years older than me; he was twenty-seven to my sixteen when we first met, but I loved him, and I was blest in that he returned my affections.”

I could guess what had happened next, and she swiftly proved me correct.

“My father not only refused the match, but arranged for him to be sent to work in London at a shipping company”, she said. “Nevertheless, we remained in contact through the general post, much to Father's disapproval. I am sure that he only allowed that because he feared that I was strong-headed enough to go and join him if I was denied. He presumably hoped that I would find someone else, or that one or both of us would lose interest in the relationship.”

“Go on”, Sherlock urged.

“Ivor prospered in his work, and later moved to Liverpool, where he took over the running of the company's ships to Ireland and the Isle of Man. He returned to the village for a visit a little over five years ago, and again sought my hand in marriage; he was thirty-three then, and I was twenty-two. Papa was still not happy, but I made it clear that he was the man I wanted, and no other, and we were duly joined in holy matrimony soon after.”

“When did things start going wrong?” Sherlock asked.

“I can name the date exactly”, she said, “for it was a most strange event that marked it. It was September the tenth, three weeks to the day after our marriage. A letter came to the house, and I could see at once that it was unusual. The envelope seemed too thin to contain paper, yet there was definitely something inside of it. Since Ivor was away in Ireland, I opened it as we had agreed. It contained precisely five orange pips, nothing else. I thought it very odd, and when I mentioned it to him on his return, he looked most alarmed, but would not tell me why. He claimed that it was just some practical joke, but I am afraid that I did not quite believe him.”

“Did you happen to note where the letter came from?” Sherlock asked.

She shook her head.

“All I can say is that it was English”, she said, “and that it struck me that it had three postmarks on it, although I do not recall what they were. It was also exceptionally poorly-addressed, so it may have gone astray. It was soon after that that I noticed a change in my husband. He spent longer away in Liverpool on business, although when he was home, he was more attentive than ever.”

“But you fear that those attentions are driven by guilt”, Sherlock said shrewdly. “This sounds most intriguing, Mrs. Jones. I am to presume that there have been more letters since?”

She nodded.

“Two years ago Llew, the postman, mentioned that he had had 'an odd letter' for Ivor”, she said. “It must have come whilst I was out, and my husband never mentioned it to me. And last week....”

She hesitated.

“Go on”, Sherlock urged.

She took a deep breath.

“I should not have done so”, she said looking down, “but a few days ago I needed to post a letter urgently, and had no stamps. I knew that Ivor had some in his desk, so I opened a draw looking for them. I found a number of orange pips, fifteen in all. I calculated that there must have been a letter each year with one less pip than the year previous, though the meaning of such a strange means of communication eludes me.”

Sherlock thought for a few moments.

Tell me”, he said, “is your husband currently away in Lancashire?”

“He is”, she said. “I fear....”

She stopped. I could pretty much guess what she feared.

“Let us not indulge in idle speculation”, Sherlock said firmly. “We need _facts_. When is he due to return here?”

“He said in his last letter that it will not be for two more weeks”, she said, looking miserable. “He has been delayed an extra five days 'on business'.”

The doubt in her words was palpable.

“I have one more question”, Sherlock said, “and it is a little indelicate, but needs must. You said that your husband was doing well at his job when he resumed his suit, but something else happened around that time. What was it?”

She looked at him in surprise.

“An inheritance”, she said. “A great-uncle of his passed on, and the estate was split amongst his many relatives. Ivor only received about two hundred pounds, but that has left us comfortably well off since. That was why he felt able to ask for my hand in marriage, once he was sure that he could support me. How did you know?”

“I doubted that your father could be so easily won over, so soon”, Sherlock said. “This is a strange matter you have set before us, Mrs. Jones. I rather think that we need to visit your husband in person, and preferably whilst he is about his business. Fortunately since he is not due to return any time soon, we can finish our holiday here and then proceed northwards. We shall of course communicate our findings to you as soon as we have any.”

“Thank you”, she smiled.

+~+~+

“Do you think that he has another wife in Ireland or something?” I asked, once Mrs. Jones was safely gone.

“Anything is possible”, Sherlock said with a yawn. “You had better go and see your old church, before we are beset by more people seeking our help in this bustling metropolis of a village!”

I chuckled.

+~+~+

Mercifully the rest of our holiday passed quietly enough, and a week later we were working our way cross-country up to Liverpool, a bustling place indeed. Upon inquiring at the shipping offices, Sherlock discovered that Mr. Jones hardly ever travelled to Ireland, but did make frequent trips to Man and was due to sail there in two days' time.

We arrived back at our hotel to find a telegram from London. Sherlock read it and smiled. 

“It is from Bacchus”, he said. “Apparently he is in the middle of a developing political crisis, and he wants me back in London to help as soon as possible.”

“He put that in a telegram?” I said, surprised.

“The message actually states that our Aunt Ada is ill and not expected to last the week”, he explained. “He writes in code, of course. But I shall not return until we have solved this case. He knows better than to push for more.”

Having seen Sherlock's temper when roused, I could vouch for that. His brother had been banned from seeing him for a week after he had demanded he abandon a case because he was 'needed'. A whole week without seeing the ghastly lounge-lizard. It had been wonderful, and.....

Sherlock was smiling at me again. I really wished that he would switch off his mind-reading abilities from time to time!

+~+~+

We tracked down Mr. Jones just as he boarded the boat to the island. Unfortunately I was fated to endure another unpleasant sea-crossing, and was never more glad to see land in the form of Douglas, capital of the island, from the side of the ship down which my breakfast had just gone. Our quarry was due to spend one night on the island, and I silently thanked him when he immediately adjourned to a nearby hotel and, Sherlock told me, did not leave his room for the rest of the day.

“Though he had a visitor”, my friend said over dinner that evening (mercifully my stomach had stopped heaving). “A man by the name of Mr. Ernest Wiseman, who brought a set of papers with him to the room, and left them behind when he left.”

“I am surprised that you do not know the contents of the documents as well”, I chuckled.

“I can only say that they were legal documents of some sort”, Sherlock said, “as they bore distinctive markings. And Mr. Wiseman works for a firm of solicitors here in Douglas. We shall need to be up early tomorrow, to follow our prey wherever he goes.”

“What makes you think that he is going somewhere?” I asked.

“Elementary”, he said. “If he had business only here in town, he could have saved himself the expense of a night at a hotel and returned by the evening ferry, on which he is instead booked tomorrow afternoon. Therefore he is allowing himself some time on the island, and I doubt that it is solely for company business. We shall soon see.”

+~+~+

The following morning the weather was much better. A mercifully caffeinated Sherlock was waiting for me at breakfast; I still remembered with horror the terrible day a few months ago when Mrs. Harvelle had run out of coffee. I do not think it was a mistake that she would ever repeat, and if she did, I would have to move to Scotland to avoid the ensuing fallout! The only upside had been an ill-timed visit by his unpleasant brother Bacchus, whose demands my friend had taken rather badly. At least I assumed such by the way he had chased the lounge-lizard down the stairs whilst wielding his stick!

“Mr. Jones' porter relates that he has ordered a timetable for the line south to Port Erin”, Sherlock told me over breakfast, eyeing my bacon enviously. He had more than me on his plate, but I still forked most of mine across, earning myself a grateful look. 

“We shall be able to let the train take the strain”, I smiled back, content with my sausages, eggs and one remaining rasher, whilst wondering if Sherlock was attempting to drown his heap of bacon in sauce. The man was a grub at times!

+~+~+

There was a telegram for Sherlock that came just as he was finishing breakfast, and he smiled as he read it. He would not tell me the contents, and was on Lord alone knows what number coffee when I saw our quarry leaving the hotel. Fortunately we did not have to hurry after him as the station was just around the corner, so a certain someone was fully caffeinated before we set off.

The trains on the island turned out to be narrow gauge, though not as small as I had feared. Our first-class carriage, which Sherlock insisted on as our quarry had a third-class ticket, was very comfortable, and I enjoyed trundling along through the pleasant countryside, whilst Sherlock checked at each stop to see if our quarry was alighting. As things turned out he was destined for Port Erin, the last station on the line, which was a really quite beautiful little fishing port. I do not consider myself a 'tourist type', but even I could see the appeal of somewhere like this. 

Mr. Jones alighted from some way along the platform, and was almost immediately met by two people, another man of about his own age and a most attractive your girl of about twenty. The other man shook hands with our quarry, who then hugged the girl tightly - and kissed her! I looked at Sherlock in shock.

“She is almost young enough to be his daughter!” I hissed, before the realization hit me. 

He raised an eyebrow at me, but said nothing.

“Is she?” I asked cautiously.

Mr. Jones had finished embracing the girl, and spoke a few quiet words to the other man before the three of them walked away into the town. I stared after them in shock.

“Poor Mrs. Jones”, I said at last. “I wonder what she will say when she finds out?”

Sherlock looked at his watch.

“Well, as her boat from Liverpool got in about ten minutes ago, we shall soon find out”, he said airily. “She will just make the next train down.”

He walked away whilst I was still recovering.

“Hey, wait a minute..... Sherlock!”

+~+~+

The three people we were following went for lunch at a small hotel on the sea front, and we slipped in a little after them. Sherlock ordered lunch, but I was almost too nervous to eat, although fortunately they had pie – cherry! - so I managed to force some down (someone claims that it was two slices, but I am sure that he is wrong in his recollections, as I always remember quality pie). A middle-aged woman came up after about an hour, and the girl left with her. Sherlock kept checking his watch, and after a while stood up and ushered me over to the three of them. 

“May we join you, please?” he asked politely. Mr. Jones looked at him curiously.

“I have seen you somewhere before”, he said, and his tone was definitely wary. “Who are you, sir?”

“We enjoyed a holiday in your beautiful home county of Monmouthshire recently, and I chanced to speak with your wife”, Sherlock said easily. “I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Doctor John Watson.”

Mr. Jones had gone pale. His friend looked at us in confusion.

“Something is wrong, Ivor?” he asked. He had a faint foreign accent, possibly Dutch, I thought. 

“Where is the girl?” Sherlock asked bluntly.

“With my wife”, the man said. “I am Willem Benson. What is going on?”

“Your friend here is guilty of a mild deception”, Sherlock said, “of which I suspect you are an integral part. The girl is an important part of his life, yet he concealed her existence from his wife. When the good lady became suspicious, she took advantage of my presence in her village to ask me to investigate.”

Mr. Jones groaned.

“You cannot tell her!” he said bitterly. “She would not understand!”

“I would not understand what, Ivor?”

I really thought that Mr. Jones was about to pass out, if not expire right there and then. He spun round so quickly that he almost fell from his chair, and the sight of his wife standing there made him go first white, then red.

“Hannah!” he gasped.

“Pray take a seat, Mrs. Jones”, Sherlock said courteously, “and I shall explain what is happening here. Thanks to my dear brother's efforts – yes, Watson, Bacchus is useful for something! - I indeed know what your husband has been keeping from you these past five years. I am pleased to assure you that it is not as bad as either it - or he, for that matter - looks.”

That could have been true, as Mr. Jones looked terrible. His wife sat down, eyeing him somewhat warily. He all but collapsed back into his chair.

“I shall say at the start that there will have to be an element of forgiveness for matters to continue”, Sherlock said. “Though he remained in contact with and loved Miss Mortimer as you were then, Mr, Jones was a young man subject to the temptations of life in a busy port. Most young men commit at least one indiscretion upon such occasions, and Mr. Jones was no exception. Except that his indiscretion led to a pregnancy.”

Mrs. Jones gasped. 

“The girl.....” she began.

“No”, Sherlock said firmly. “Unhappily the lady in question chose to pursue the pregnancy despite medical advice not to, and died in childbirth, as did her child. Mr. Jones had behaved like the gentleman he had been ninety-nine per cent of the time, and had even offered to marry her – she had refused - but when she knew that she was dying, she had extracted a promise from him. Namely to take care of her only other family, a much younger sister.”

I gasped. Suddenly I had got it.

“The girl's parents were, perhaps understandably, horrified at this, and initially refused all contact”, Sherlock went on. “However, about five years ago they were killed during a burglary at their house, and their only surviving child, the dead girl's sister then some fifteen years of age, became the ward of you, Mr. Benson. Acting on an agreement that you had made with Mr. Jones, whom you had kept informed of the girl's progress, on her sixteenth birthday soon after you sent him an envelope containing five orange pips. This was a covert way of communicating to the man here that the girl had five years to go before she would reach twenty-one. Fortunately she was the sole beneficiary of a substantial estate, so there was no problem with money....”

“I have only ever used that for poor Margaret's benefit”, Mr. Jones said firmly.

“I believe you”, Sherlock said. “However, the Fates were against you. The very first of the reminder letters chanced to fall into the hands of Mrs. Jones here who, not unnaturally, was more than a little alarmed by your reaction when you refused to tell her about it.”

Mr. Jones groaned again, and put his head in his hands.

“I see”, Mrs. Jones said slowly. “Well, Ivor, what is it to be?”

He looked up, his face fearful.

“You would not make me choose!” he begged. “Please!”

She sighed in that put-upon way that women do so well.

“I was actually wondering whether you wanted to move here, or have the girl come to Monmouthshire with us?”

He looked at her in astonishment, and Sherlock nudged me to leave.

Women! I would never understand them!

+~+~+

“I suppose that I can see why he did not tell her”, I said once we were back in my room. “I am only glad that it was not as bad as I had thought.”

“Given appearances, I can understand why you may have assumed the worst”, he said with a smile. “But one should never assume. In his telegram, Bacchus also told me that the current political crisis is over, but he has a new one brewing, and that it may involve yet another sea-crossing, this time to the Continent.”

“He wants you to go Abroad?” I asked, secretly horrified. My friend might be away from me for months, weeks, even years...

He was looking at me in confusion.

“He may want whatever he wants”, he said firmly, “but there is no way I would ever go anywhere without you, Watson.”

I blushed fiercely.

“Even back across that rough Irish Sea!” he teased.

Damnation! I had forgotten about that!

+~+~+

In the event, we spent two more days on the island whilst the storm which had made our crossing there so choppy passed on, and Sherlock only had to ignore seven more telegrams from his brother so that I could return to England on a calm sea. He was a good friend!

+~+~+

Before our next case, I run into some difficulties – of the sort that mean I am the one who has to leave the country! Thankfully, I have my Sherlock.


End file.
